


A Mouthful of Dandelions

by thevalesofanduin



Series: The Monster You Can Not Kill [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevalesofanduin/pseuds/thevalesofanduin
Summary: Whenever Jaskier speaks, dandelions flow from his mouth.It's a lonely life Destiny has condemned him to.Until he meets a brown mare, who is happy to eat the few dandelions he spits out when greeting her.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Monster You Can Not Kill [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941736
Comments: 36
Kudos: 389





	A Mouthful of Dandelions

**Author's Note:**

> I've started a new series, each installment a stand-alone work where Jaskier is something not human and Geralt can't (or won't) kill him. This one turned out longer than I'm planning these pieces to be, and probably is the fluffiest of the series as well. The rest will be creepy rather than cute.

Whenever he speaks, dandelions flow from his mouth.

Each one a perfect full flower with soft, round petals in a yellow so vibrant it could be the sun itself. They seem to grow on his tongue, quick and painless and one for every word that leaves his mouth.

He doesn’t speak much.

Not a word around his father, for certain. He used to, oh he did. When he was too young to understand how much his father hated the mere thought of him. How servants would collect the flowers from the floor—one for each word he dared speak to his father—and make it into a special meal just for him. A dinner of dandelions, and _only_ dandelions.

His sister doesn’t hate it, per say. She finds it peculiar at the best of times and a weird abomination at the worst. She complains that if only they were the seeds and not the flowers, there would at least be a use for it, because then she could blow them all away in exchange for a wish. Some nights, he dreams of soft dandelion seeds that he can blow away with a gentle breath wishing he was nothing but a boring, normal boy.

His mother adores him. Will sit with him and make sure the door is closed so he can talk and talk and talk while she weaves dandelion flower crowns or presses them between the thick books she keeps in her personal tea room. When it’s time to leave their sanctuary, she always presses a kiss against the side of his head and fondly calls him _Jaskier._ The nickname itself is a mere translation of dandelion in the language of her people—people that are always undisclosed, rarely mentioned and certainly never met and he wonders if they, too, spit flowers when they speak.

\---

His mother passes and he leaves Lettenhove.

It’s stupid, reckless and part of him fears it might be suicide but what other choice does he have? Stay with a father that loathes him even more now than before, a sister who wishes if only he would disappear so she would be the oldest and in line for their estate all while living in a mansion that is too full of memories? The only good thing he has in Lettenhove is his mother’s tea room, and even here he can’t sit without crying.

So he leaves.

Leaves with only a few coins in his pocket, some supplies and the lute his mother gave him for his sixteenth birthday on his back and he calls himself Jaskier—if only in his head.

He decides that his first night he will spent at an inn. He has the coin for it, after all, and it will be uncomfortable enough as it is. No need to make it worse by sleeping in the woods.

“Hello,” he says as he enters an inn when dawn falls, and regrets it instantly.

One word, one dandelion.

It grows quick, as always and he clenches his jaws and pushes his lips together and his mouth is dry, so dry, as he swallows and forces the flower down his throat. It itches and stings for the dandelions are meant to flow, not _eaten_ before they leave his mouth.

They aren’t meant to be _hidden._

He thinks that if he is bound to spit, eat, _whatever,_ flowers for his whole existence on this rotten world why couldn’t they have been oleanders instead. Those, at least, are poisonous.

He doesn’t stay the night in town.

Spends it, instead, in the forest where he cries and screams and manages to make a fire in which he burns all the dandelions that are the only proof of his outrage. The stars the only listening witness to his despair and unable to answer the questions hurled into the sky, meant for lady Destiny who never sees it fit to answer. Doesn’t come to explain why him, why she has damned the one human that is so full of beautiful words to a life where he is unable to speak them.

\---

Jaskier pretends can’t talk.

It certainly makes life easier. People either feel compassion or pity for the poor lad that thinks he can be a bard and while sometimes it results in him being laughed at there are also those that give him a bowl of stew, a mug of ale and a pitiful chance to play some music. But Jaskier is, if anything, stubborn and he is _talented_ with the lute composing songs that don’t need words to sway a crowd.

It’s not a bad life. It’s certainly better than whatever future he had waiting for him in Lettenhove.

It’s just terribly lonely.

This, however, changes one day when he is basking in the sun on a rock, feet bare and dipped into cold mountain water so they can have a blissful rest. He looks up when a brown mare comes strolling from the shrubs and steps into the water without really paying him any heed.

“Hello there,” he murmurs, because a horse won’t judge him for spitting flowers as he talks.

He watches the two dandelions fall into the water, drift downstream and the mare just snuffs when they reach her and eats them without a moment of hesitation.

Jaskier grins and pulls his feet out of the water, shaking some droplets off before standing and walking to the horse. She’s beautiful, healthy and well-kept which means that her owner must be nearby.

But it’s the first _something_ he’s spoken to in weeks so he’ll take this moment and relish in it.

He holds out one of his hand and softly tells the horse: “this is our little secret.” He catches the dandelions with ease and offers the dandelions to the mare, who happily eats them from the palm of his hand.

“Don’t touch my horse,” someone says. No hello, now how-do-you-do, just a warning spoken in a deep voice that rumbles with unspoken threats to Jaskier’s being if he doesn’t listen.

He twirls around and takes a step away from the mare just in case, laying eyes on the man that’s spoken to him. He’s dressed in black, with broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to cut paper, snow-white hair and two particularly large swords strapped to his back.

Ah, Jaskier thinks, he knows what this man is.

He raises his hands in an apologetic gesture and then waves them at his mouth, shaking his head.

Better make it very clear he’s not going to speak.

Because he knows to be careful about who knows about the dandelions and he thinks that, perhaps, it is better that a Witcher doesn’t know. Witchers kill monsters, after all, and while he doesn’t think he classifies as a monster he isn’t completely human either.

The Witcher regards him silently for a moment with beautiful golden eyes that put yellow dandelions to shame.

"Mute?” he asks with a frown.

Jaskier is quick to nod and prays to Melitele that the Witcher didn’t hear him speak just now.

“Hmm,” the Witcher hums, walking over to his horse and brushing her mane. He looks at Jaskier over her neck. “Your family dump you here? This is no place for the likes of you.”

Jaskier lowers his eyes to the ground, a frown marring his face and his lower lip between his teeth lest he open his mouth and tells this Witcher he can take care of himself just fine, thanks very much.

The Witcher raises an eyebrow at him and his lips quirk up into something that vaguely resembles amusement. “Offence? Really?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen because either this Witcher can read faces exceptionally well, or he can sense emotions. That is… he will admit it is terrifying but on the other hand the prospect of it is exciting in a way Jaskier hasn’t felt in a while. If this man can sense his emotions, he might be able to communicate with him without having to talk.

“Next town is two days away,” the Witcher says. “I’ll bring you there.”

The mare bumps her snout against the Witcher’s chest in what looks like agreement and Jaskier smiles, already feeling less lonely.

\---

If the Witcher— _Geralt—_ thought he’d just drop Jaskier off in town and be done with it, he’s dead wrong.

Geralt takes a contract, and when he leaves town, Jaskier follows.

He is delighted when he is _allowed_.

He has no illusions here, he might be following Geralt because he wants to but he is doing so because the Witcher is allowing him. He knows he’d be left behind if the Witcher truly cared so little for him as he pretends to do.

Traveling with Geralt turns out to be the best choice of Jaskier’s life. It's stories, even if they are shared with few words and the process of retrieving them is like pulling teeth and Jaskier wishes he could just _tell_ the damn Witcher to use his words properly. But it's more than that. It's company, it's someone who doesn't pity him for not talking and who understands him anyway because he can _sense_ what Jaskier is feeling—plus, he's gotten quite good at making all kinds of different gestures. And while Geralt sometimes pretends to be confused Jaskier knows he is _not_.

It's all great, until it isn’t.

Until they are two years into their unlikely friendship and Jaskier is completely and utterly besotted with Geralt. A Witcher, a supposed heartless monster that is kinder than any white knight Jaskier’s read about. So it’s no wonder, really, that he finds himself in love.

In love, and terribly guilty.

He thinks about it all Winter when he's alone and Geralt is gone to wherever Witchers go in Winter, if he should tell Geralt the truth.

That he’s been deceiving him for the past two years, pretending to be unable to speak.

By the time Spring rolls around, and he is reunited with his Witcher he isn't any closer to making a decision.

“Fuck,” Geralt mumbles.

 _What?_ Jaskier wants to ask but he knows he doesn’t need to.

Geralt doesn’t talk a lot, but he knows when elaboration is needed—although it took months of Jaskier literally poking at him in question for Geralt to get _that_ message.

“I need dandelions for this potion,” Geralt sighs and annoyance is written across his face because dandelions don’t grow here.

Barely anything does.

“Oh,” Jaskier mutters, unable to stop himself because it’s dandelions Geralt needs and isn’t that ironic? A single dandelion flows from his mouth because he is too slow to stop it.

It drifts slowly to the ground and Jaskier watches it with widened eyes and a wildly beating heart.

What has he done?

“I thought you were mute, Bard.” Geralt’s voice is low, careful and Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if the emotion he can’t quite read in the other’s tone is _betrayal_.

“Jaskier,” he offers, because apparently he’s speaking now and at least Geralt should know his name.

Geralt stands up from where he’s seated on the other side of the fire and Jaskier flinches when the Witcher makes his way over. But Geralt doesn’t really _do_ anything. Merely squats down in front of Jaskier as he tries to pull the bard apart with those piercing eyes of his. “You’re not mute,” he says accusingly.

Jaskier lowers his eyes to the ground, similar to their first meeting but there is no offence he’s feeling now. Just a soul-deep guilt and shame that he doesn’t know how to deal with.

So, instead, he asks: “dandelions. How many do you need?”

Geralt’s eyes widen when he sees the dandelions. One, two, three, four, they flow to the ground to lie with the others already there. “A dozen,” he says, voice a whisper and eyes not straying from the dandelions.

The air is tense around them, even Jaskier can feel it without Witcher senses and he almost feels sick. Like he’s either going to faint or barf. He looks at the eight flowers already on the ground and chooses his next four words carefully.

“I’m sorry for lying.”

Geralt looks at the dandelions on the forest floor, an unreadable expression on his face. “I knew I heard a voice that day.”

\---

“What are you?” Geralt asks later, when his potion is made and Jaskier doesn’t feel like he is going to faint anymore.

Jaskier sighs, tries to find words to explain but instead his eyes find the Witcher’s silver sword resting against a nearby tree and it is, apparently, all the answer Geralt needs.

“No,” he Witcher says with a shake of his head and he regards Jaskier with those golden eyes that see right through him and they burn with curiosity and acceptance but not with _hatred_. “No, I don’t think you are.”

\---

Geralt forgives him.

Not with those exact words, but Jaskier is certain when the other tells him he is free to talk without judgement when they are alone, it’s as close to saying _you’re forgiven_ Geralt will ever come.

And now that he can, he talks. It’s an almost endless stream of words and sentences and noise that he can freely make. And when he’s done talking, he sings. Sings every song that’s been on the tip of his tongue for years, for _decades_ and he’s never felt this normal, this free.

He sings, just for Geralt and Roach’s ears and just when he starts to wonder if the Witcher will tell him that he takes it back, Jaskier, please shut up he catches fond, golden eyes watching him.

Geralt shakes his head then, as if to say _I won’t ask you to stop_ and Jaskier thinks that perhaps, Geralt likes for Jaskier to speak all the words that he himself won’t.

This rings true one night especially, when they sit next to each other in front of the fire and Jaskier softly admits: “You know, I thank the day I met you.”

He gathers the dandelions in front of him and starts weaving a crown, just like his mother always did. Their own show of affection.

With what he has to say, he knows there will be enough.

“Life was silence and loneliness before I met you,” Jaskier says. “I regretted leaving home but couldn’t have stayed. I hated Destiny for dealing me this hand but then you came. People say you’re a monster but you care, you care so much. For others, _monsters_ , for me. Aside from my mother, no-one has ever truly cared about me and you had no business doing so but you _did_. You did and you’re my first and only friend and I feel wrong saying this because I don’t want to lose you but, Geralt, I love you,” he finishes, his voice trembling and silence reigns the clearing as he threads the last three dandelions into the flower crown with shaking fingers.

He looks at it for a moment before he shyly looks up and offers it to Geralt. A show of affection, his heart woven into a dandelion flower crown.

Geralt looks at the flower crown first and into Jaskier’s eyes second. A whole book of emotions plays in those golden eyes, an open book at that but the words remain where they are.

Unspoken.

It’s almost funny how they are opposites. How the man who doesn’t speak has too much to say and how the one who does speak is often left clueless on what to say.

And so, because Geralt isn’t used to feeling his emotions and using his words, when he asks Jaskier to place the flower crown atop his head he says _I love you too._

Their love, it turns out, doesn’t need words.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there is no potion for which Geralt would need dandelions, but for the sake of the story let's assume there is okay?
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr](https://thevalesofanduin.tumblr.com/)


End file.
